


His Guardian Angel - An Epilogue

by LondonGypsy



Series: His Guardian Angel [2]
Category: Benedict Cumberbatch Fandom, British Actor RPF
Genre: (a short mention that is), AU, Death from Old Age, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, F/M, Guardian Angel, I AM SORRY, I can't stress that enough, I dont know what else to say, Major character death - Freeform, Retirement, Wingfic, Wings, if you dont like - DON'T READ, modernized, mythical being, there - more warning, there are bees if that helps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1781275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonGypsy/pseuds/LondonGypsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here we are, decades later.<br/>Esme and Benedict have lived a long and fulfilled life.<br/>But now things have come to an end.<br/>This are their last weeks together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Guardian Angel - An Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am killing Benedict Bloody Cumberbatch!!! Sue me!  
> But I knew right from the start that I wanted to do that - after a long and happy life.  
> It just felt right, okay?!  
> Funnily I wrote the last lines before I had even finished the first chapter.  
> And here it is - Benedict's last weeks, aged, still beautiful and perfect, ready to leave this world in peace.  
> The biggest thanks to my beloved Barawen and the wonderful OzGirlGlinda for the quick and wonderful Beta.  
> Any remaining mistakes are mine.

Time is a strange thing. 

Sometimes it passes in the blink of an eye, years fly by like nothing, whizzing past like the wing beat of a butterfly. 

Sometimes it stretches on and on. Minutes, hours, days, they feel like forever; precious moments, captured in amber, frozen and preserved for all eternity. 

And every now and then time slips through one's fingers, and what feels like mere moments are decades in reality. 

***

The beams of the early summer sun graze over the tips of the trees at the end of the garden, casting long grey shadows over the grass, ground fog wafts lazily between the bushes. 

It'll be light for another half hour; she can feel the chill creeping up from the woods in the distance. 

The days are already warm but the nights still bring frost and more than once she’s awoke to a white garden. 

She fears for the roses and glances over to the bushes close by - their blossoms are full, ready to bloom any day now. 

It's still busy in them: bees are buzzing loudly between the leaves and it makes her smile. 

A soft grunt and the faint image of a tall, dark-haired man in a black coat and blue scarf whizzes through her mind, making her snicker. 

Yeah, it's probably exactly like _he_ would enjoy his retirement. 

Absently she hums a melody she hasn't heard in years, and the huffed chuckles drifting past her ears warm her heart more than the sun can. 

Looking down, her smile widens. 

He's stretched out on the large bench, his head on her thigh, his bare feet dangling over the edge, one hand resting on his flat stomach, a strand of hair falling in his closed eyes. 

She brushes it back, reveling in the smooth silkiness of it. 

His hair is still a thing of utter beauty, especially right now. The late daylight dances over his curls, making them glow copper and brass and golden, with the occasional silver flashes. 

It had become lighter, the natural auburn finally showing after he stopped working and dying it. He's wearing it longer these days, too lazy to go to the hairdresser every few weeks. 

Esme loves it. There's nothing more calming than playing with his hair when he's resting by her side, his head in her lap.  

It always makes him purr quietly when they spend lazy afternoons on the porch, her fingers sliding steadily through his hair. 

He hums softly, his dozing mind catching her thoughts, a smile darting over his face before he lies still again. 

Her heart swells as she watches him, his chest slowly rising and falling, his face peaceful, more asleep than awake. 

Gently she runs a finger over his forehead, down his nose, tracing the lines around his eyes that tell so many stories. 

He's aged like he did everything in his long and fulfilled life: with elegance and quiet grace. 

The years have erased the sharp edges of his handsome face, softened the otherworldliness of it into something less harsh, his alien beauty a tad more subtle these days. 

He's still a very gorgeous man, despite - or perhaps because of - the deep lines around eyes and mouth and the wrinkles framing his face.  

The ever changing colour of his eyes has become a deep azure over time, bright and vivid, still with a glint of mischief in them. 

They match the old soul that’s been showing in them since his teenage years, curious yet wise, watching the world turn around him. 

She lets her gaze wander, over the sensual swing of his lips, pink and full, curled into a faint smile, down his neck, his chest and his arms, still toned even though he stopped working out ages ago, down to his hands. 

She's always loved them, could spend hours watching them, caressing them, feeling them on her skin. 

Square and big, his fingers long and slim, not proportional to the fragility of his wrists and yet perfect as a whole. 

And always in motion when he talks; he can't hold them still, can barely keep them down when he's speaking. They glide through the air, emphasising, accentuating every word gracefully. 

Alas, they are less steady than they used to be although his grip is still firm. 

The left has become his dominant one after a minor stroke a few years ago, leaving his right almost useless for a few weeks. 

He fought hard, failed and tried again, his stubbornness helping him to get it working again. But it never returned back to its full functions. Frustrated he started to use the left one more and more, mastering a task only few could've accomplished. 

Now he even writes left-handed and he's doing it wonderfully. 

She smiles melancholic; it had considerably improved his handwriting - it's much more readable than his illegible scribbles from back then.

Caressing his hand, laying on his stomach, she traces the veins, standing out against his light skin. 

His arms are instantly covered in goosebumps and she does it again. 

He grumbles lowly, his fingers twitch and with another rumble he catches her hand, twining their fingers together to hold them still. 

"I have two, you know," she murmurs amused. 

He huffs a laugh, pressing his head further into her other hand. 

"'s busy," he mutters, barely awake. 

Twirling one of the silver strands around her fingertip she nods even though he doesn't see it. 

His mental chuckle is louder, filling her head with its roughness and she bites back a groan. 

Even after all these years his voice never ceases to amaze her, make her react like it's the first time. 

It has become a lot richer over time, gas gone even darker and deeper.

If she had to choose, she'd always choose now - the husky quality of his voice never fails to chase delightful shivers down her spine.

He made it a habit to read to her after the stroke. To get the muscles back under control, he'd said. She never complains. She could spend hours listening to him, reading to her from his favourite books and plays. 

She called his voice divine once, which lead to the most remarkable night where he not once stopped talking to her. 

Only thinking about that magical night makes her skin prickle and her hair stand on end; it had been absolutely unforgettable. 

He chuckles again, pride seeping out of him, hazy and slow. She tsks him but the smile on her face betrays her action. Lifting her hand still in his, he presses a tender kiss to her palm. 

"Magical, huh?" 

"Hush you, go back to sleep." 

He hums and shifts before he lays still again, his mind becoming unfocused, his thoughts blur. 

The sharp jolt shooting through her goes unnoticed by him - he's already asleep again. 

He sleeps a lot lately, even the smallest tasks tire him. 

He laughs it off, jokes that at his age he's allowed to be quickly exhausted. She knows better. 

But she doesn't say anything, seals her mind off against those looming thoughts and plans his birthday instead. 

He turns 90 in a few weeks and he's very proud of it, determined to throw a party for their closest friends. 

He never thought he'd make it that far and to be honest, neither did she. 

But then again, he's always surprised her and why would old age change that?

Every second she can spend with him is precious to her.

She's dreading the day he'll leave her and most of her will power goes towards ignoring that thought. 

She can feel their time running out. With every breath he takes they get closer to the inevitable and she's not sure how to deal with that. 

Normally when a Guardian becomes too attached to their guarded one, they are told to loosen the threads binding them. 

It's painful yet absolutely necessary - especially when having spent most of their lives together. 

Detaching themselves is vital to make it through the approaching separation. 

She tried. 

After his stroke when he was lying in hospital, pale and weak and so vulnerable that it made her heart ache. 

When he was helpless. 

 

She was sitting down next to his bed and had closed her eyes, following the invisible strings between their souls, her fingers sliding over the knots and twists that bind her so deeply to him. 

Carefully she had tried to untangle the silvery web, to make it a tad easier for her.  

The shimmering fabric kept slipping through her fingers like fish, tightening with every attempt she made to loosen it. 

Even as she attacked it with everything she had, even as she clawed at it, angry tears stinging behind her lids, it was impossible. 

The threads only bounced back from her grip, spinning their web closer around their hearts. 

Eventually she gave up and sat back, staring blindly at the man in the bed. 

It took her two days to start accepting that - when the day came - it would break her in ways she couldn't even imagine. 

And she would have to live with it. 

She is immortal; it won't result in her demise although that thought does have an appeal to her. 

The blurry image of Martin flashed through her mind. 

He had never gotten over Amanda's death. They had lived together 60 odd years; her loss had broken him so utterly and completely that he had aged years in the span of days; he followed her only weeks later. 

Benedict always says he'd died of a broken heart and she has the feeling she knows how that will feel. 

The soft caress of her cheek and another blurred image in her head made her look up. 

Benedict had smiled at her, weak but genuine, narrowing his eyes to make his message a bit clearer. 

She smiled despite herself. 

Steven. Battered and bruised but still alive at the biblical age of 102. He had been living with the loss of Sue for over twenty years. He had been devastated, had retreated into his house for weeks, not seeing anyone. But eventually he'd pulled himself together and faced life alone. 

She knows he'd never actually gotten over it but he'd made the best of it. The years by himself had made him calmer, his mind still sharp but less biting. 

Benedict huffed a laugh and yet another image formed in her head, clearer this time, tinged with melancholy but also happiness. 

Wanda's face smiles at her, making Esme's throat close up and she twined her shaking fingers with Benedict's. 

His mum is the best example of enjoying life to the fullest and Esme eventually understood. 

Tim's too early death had left Wanda lost and lonely for a while. But after the initial grieving phase she pulled herself together and went out again. 

Benedict had glared at everyone who even looked at her oddly and he became furious once at a thoughtless comment about her getting over it too soon. Esme had been barely able to hold him back from punching that person. 

They had spent quite some time with Wanda, making sure she was doing okay. 

And she did. 

Esme still isn't sure whether it was just sheer willpower and stubbornness or just her natural being but she happily watched how Wanda started to visibly blossom again,  to engage in local charities and made new friendships. 

It was during that time, that she'd met Frank and fell in love with him. 

They married after only six months - no time to lose, she grinned as she came over on that gorgeous spring morning to tell them. 

Benedict had been euphoric about the news. He never saw another marriage as a betrayal to his dad, he knew how much his parents had loved each other. 

All he wanted was to see her happy. 

Wanda and Frank spent the autumn of their lives together; 15 glorious years before she closed her eyes forever. 

'You see,' Benedict said roughly, blinking away a stray tear, 'one can go on. Has to, really.' 

Absurdly it helped her to accept the inevitable, made it easier for her to stop thinking about it nonstop. 

It never leaves her mind, that isn't possible but Benedict's calmness, the utter acceptance of his fate, makes it less threatening for her.

 

She sighs, shaking her head, concentrating on the moment. 

The sun has vanished behind the trees and she shivers at the first cool breeze that comes with nightfall. 

Leaning down she kisses Benedict's forehead. 

"Come on, old man, it's getting dark." 

He grumbles and blinks heavy lids open before he sits up, groaning at the cracking kinks in his back. 

She stands and helps him up, waiting patiently as he sways before he steadies himself. 

Slowly they walk inside, closing the door against the cool air. 

"You hungry?" she asks, putting the kettle on. 

"Starving," he replies as he strolls into the sitting room to light up the logs in the fireplace. 

"There's leftovers from yesterday." 

"Sounds good." 

She putters around in the kitchen while he returns, fixing the tea and then sits at the table, watching her. 

"You look older," he suddenly says, his tone bemused even though she catches the air of wonderment about it. 

Nodding she sets their plates on the table, sitting down as well. 

"It's easier like this. Gradually adding years is less tiring than putting it on all at once," she explains quietly. 

"Ah, right," he says, squinting at her, which gives him an adorable expression. 

Esme smirks and picks up his glasses, gently putting them on his nose. 

His brows rise and he sticks his tongue out at her. 

"Not blind yet," he mutters, making her laugh. 

"God, you're still bloody gorgeous," he sighs longingly, the echo of something fiery passing over his face. 

"Not as gorgeous as you," she thinks, biting her lip to hide her smile as he blushes. 

"So many years and you're still not used to it." 

"I'll never get used to it. Not back then and definitely not now," he replies, a hint of irritation in his tone. 

He falls silent and she knows what he’s is going to say next. 

She holds up her hand, stopping him. 

"Don't. We have a deal, remember?" 

Lowering his head, he nods and swallows the words already on the tip of his tongue. 

Wordlessly he picks up his fork and starts eating but his silent irritation is nagging. Esme watches him for a moment before she sighs. 

"Benedict." 

Just his name but he flinches a little, looking up from under his lashes. 

"Don't do that," she says, reaching out to take his hand, "we agreed to never bring it up." 

"I know, I know but when I look at you..." 

"It's just looks, my love." 

"Yes, it is and yet I can't help myself. Whenever I look in the mirror, I see an old man, wrinkly and - " 

"Absolutely stunning," she finishes the sentence, squeezing his hand, "you are still the most beautiful man I've ever seen. And I know I'm not the only one thinking that..." 

She raises her eyebrows suggestively, making him snort but his eyes twinkle and his lips twitch. 

"Have you been reading the fan-sites again?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Geez, I can't believe people still want to see this old face." 

"It's not only your face, it's the whole package. Incredible talent _and_ good looks always draw a crowd. And you..." 

She lets the words hang in the air, a soft smile lingering on her lips, before she continues. 

"You are just everything the acting world would want. May I remind you - " 

Not finishing the sentence she pointedly looks over to the mantelpiece and the six golden statues on it, shimmering in the low lights. 

"They don't give them out only for good looking people, you know," she adds gently. 

He sighs resigned, knowing when he's lost a fight. 

"Fine, I’ll shut up now," he grumbles, digging into his food again. 

"That's my man." 

Quietly they finish their meal and as Esme starts to stand, Benedict stops her. 

"I won't bring it up again. I just want to let you know, no matter how you make yourself look, to me you'll always be the most exquisite being in all the world." 

Now it's her turn to blush and his to snicker. 

Swatting his arm playfully she turns around, warmth filling her chest. 

And while he wanders back into the sitting room, humming contently, she puts away the remains of dinner, deep in thoughts. 

Their conversation reminded her of the few times she had made herself older, matched her age to his to not attract attention. 

She's still thankful that she doesn't have to do it that often. 

Not anymore. 

Normally she doesn't bother with it: they seldom leave the house and when they do, they wander around the woods and plains around it, rarely meeting other people. 

But every now and then an occasion arises that is worth the exhaustion she always feels when altering her appearance. 

One of those occasions had been for the 100th anniversary of the National Theatre which he had been invited to - the only actor still alive to have witnessed both the 50th and the 100th: they had been so proud. 

She smiles when she thinks back to that day. 

 

They talked him into reprising bits of his most famous roles and for a few weeks he had been young again. 

Wandering around the house, learning lines, cursing like a sailor when he couldn't remember the lines and grinning like a loon when he nailed a scene. 

Hamlet, of course, was child’s play. Those words had never left his mind; it had been a highlight in his life to play the one character he wanted to portray since he was a young boy. 

The lines of his own play were what troubled him. 

'I wrote it, for Christ's sake, I should know them by heart,' he had grumbled, throwing the battered script on the sofa. 

She had laughed and reminded him that it been a few years. 

'And writers usually leave finished things far behind.' 

Muttering under his breath he had flopped onto the sofa, shoving his glasses in his hair. Squinting at her - his eyesight wasn't the best anymore - he had beckoned her over. Curling up next him, she had picked up the script, flipping through it.

'You know,' she'd mused, 'I've always loved this. The way you've written it is excellent.' 

He had hummed happily.

'Yes?' 

'Yes. The way you captured the characters is outstanding. Is there anything you're not wonderful at?' 

He had giggled and pulled her closer. 

'Cutting tomatoes, I'm rubbish at that.' 

They had laughed until their stomachs hurt. 

Still smirking she had leaned against him, holding up the script. 

'Want me to rehearse with you?' 

Sighing he had kissed the top of her head. 

'That would be helpful, yes.' 

Naturally he had blown away the audience on the evening of the gala, had thrown everything he had into those few minutes on stage in front of a thousand people. Not to forget the millions around the world, watching on television as the show had been transmitted all over the globe. 

He had stunned every single person in the theatre into utter silence and it had taken a few seconds for the audience to react after he'd finished. 

The headline of most newspapers the next day was, that it had been the longest standing ovation an actor had every received. 

He had been glowing with pride when he stepped off the stage and had spent the rest of the after party on a constant high, beaming like the sun. 

Esme had stayed back and watched as everyone congratulated him, his unadulterated joy casting a golden aura around him, making him look much younger than he was. 

For one night he had forgotten his age, acted like a young man again. His entire posture has been agile and carefree, he didn't seem to feel all the little aches and pinches. He had signed autographs and taken pictures with everyone who asked, had answered questions about his work and even had waved at the few paparazzi when they had left late at night.

It had been a wonderful evening and he had fed off it for at least a week. 

 

Benedict's rumbling laugh tears her out of her thoughts. 

"Is that a thing now? Remembering all the good times?" 

She smiles, takes her tea and strolls into the sitting room, joining him on the sofa. 

"Seems so." 

"It was a splendid night." 

She snuggles into his open arms, leaning against his chest and sighs happily when he presses a kiss behind her ear. 

"I was so proud of you," she says, letting her feelings accompany her words, "you were amazing. I mean, I know what you're capable of but that? Those few scenes on that stage? They were miraculous." 

"You are miraculous," he whispers, chasing a shiver down her spine at the tone. 

His hands, resting on her stomach, slowly slide under her shirt, his fingers drawing random patterns over her skin. 

"Mr Cumberbatch, are you trying to seduce me?" she asks cheekily, leaning further into his touch. 

"Hm... does it work?" 

"Always." 

"Good. Would you follow me to the bedroom then, young Lady?" 

"With pleasure." 

*

The next weeks fly by quite quickly and before they know, Benedict's birthday is there. 

She's awake before him. 

It's too early to wake him. Today's going to be a long day for him and he needs all the strength he can get so she lets him sleep. 

Propping her head on her hand she watches the slow rise and fall of his chest, relishing the quiet noises he makes as he dreams. 

Carefully she lays her hand over his heart, feeling its assuring beat against her palm. 

She's pensive, has been for a few days and she doesn't really know why. 

It's not only his birthday. There's a nagging feeling in the back of her consciousness that makes her not wanting to leave his side. Even at night she stays as close as possible, wraps herself almost possessively around his body. 

Ninety years today. What an achievement. 

Sometimes it makes her wonder. What if she hadn't been by his side for most of it? Would he have lived that long? Or would he have died years ago on one of his adrenaline kicks? Would he had suffered from the stroke, deteriorated in a body that didn't obey him anymore until death had released him?  

She doesn't know. And for her own sake, she doesn't care. 

It's futile to think about it - he's still here, not as strong as he used to be but still by her side, making every day a memorable one. 

She has lived eons, accompanied so many people, some ordinary, some remarkable but there had never been one as unique as Benedict. 

He'll stay with her till the end of time. She never forgot any of her guarded ones, they are all etched into her memories, every single face and she treasures them all. 

But Benedict is so special, so outstanding, he made her own existence so exceptional that she doesn't know how to live on without him. 

"Would you stop musing? It's disturbing." 

His voice is hoarse from sleep and for a second an ancient character of his sounds through in the words. 

It makes her smile. 

"Good morning, birthday boy." 

Snuffling he rolls on his side, groaning loudly. 

"Gosh, I feel like 110." 

Chuckling she leans over, pressing a soft kiss on his forehead. 

"Not yet, my heart." 

He hums happily, wrapping his arms around her and pulls her closer. 

"Morning," he murmurs gruffly, deliberately dropping his voice even lower than it already is. 

She can hear his breath accelerate, can feel his skin warming, can almost taste his arousal. 

"Woah, slow down there. You're officially an old man now. Behave like one," she smirks but lets him pull her into a deep kiss. 

"I do," he mutters against her mouth, his tongue flicking over her lower lip, "celebrating in style, you see." 

"Are you now?" 

"Hm, I may be old but I still know what I can do. Even this early." 

His low laugh rumbles through his chest, dark and seductive, and her skin is instantly covered in goosebumps. 

"Bad bad boy," she whispers, slowly pushing the duvet away. 

"Happy birthday to me," he snickers roughly, pressing his heated body against hers. 

*

Two hours later he sits in the kitchen, nursing his coffee, his lids heavy, his thoughts hazy. 

"I reckon, I really am old now," he says, emptying his mug, grinning lazily at her as she puts a plate with pancakes in front of him. 

"One who’s still got it," she smirks as she sits opposite of him. 

"Paying the price for it now though," he whines although his eyes sparkle happily in the warm sunlight streaming in through the window. 

"Want to kip before your guests arrive? They won't be here before 3." 

He considers it and then shakes his head. 

"Nah, I don't want to be all drowsy. But..." 

Letting the sentence hang in the air between them, he looks at her, batting his eyelashes so adorably that she laughs out loud. 

It's been a while since she had done it; it just wasn't necessary in the past years out here in the countryside. But she knows, she won't deny him anything, not today. 

Setting down her mug she stands and walks around the table, taking his hand. 

The atmosphere in the kitchen instantly shifts, from playful and teasing to something deeper, more meaningful. 

"Outside?" she asks quietly as he stands as well, twining his fingers with hers. 

He nods and wordlessly they push open the door to the porch. 

The sun is peaking up behind the trees and the air is already warm; it's going to be a beautiful summer's day. 

Benedict takes a deep breath, a soft smile playing on his lips as he turns his face towards the sun, letting its beams warm his face. 

She watches him taking in the day, the golden light letting his pale skin glow and his hair shimmer. 

His subtle beauty, the easy elegance with what he stands there takes her breath away. And as he turns to her, his blue eyes wide, flecks of gold shimmering in them, she has to swallow hard. 

"You okay?" he asks quietly, reaching out to caress her cheek.

She nods, words failing her. She holds out her hands. 

He lays his own in hers and for a moment she gets lost in the feeling: warm, he's always so warm, gentle fingertips grazing over her wrists, making her shiver at the light touch. 

She can feel his gaze on her even though her own eyes have fluttered closed at his touch. Everything is overly sharp: the smell of the roses, the buzz of some early bees, the rough wood under her bare feet. 

And of course Benedict. 

Even without looking, she can see him standing in front of her, relaxed and calm, his head tilted to one side as he waits patiently. 

She takes a deep breath before she empties her mind and concentrates. 

For a moment she can't move, can't even breathe; it's been too long. 

But then his hands close tighter around her wrists, his thumbs stroking over the delicate skin on the inside, helping her focus. 

A shudder ripples through her body and her lids snap open the second her wings unfold slowly, fill the space behind her, stretch out as far as possible. 

The expression on his face is one of awe and wonderment. His eyes widen, flickering from side to side, trying to drink every single movement in, the corners of his mouth twitch, his breathing speeds up, his fingers close tighter around her wrists. 

He doesn't even blink as the bright green shimmer becomes almost blinding; he's looking straight into the light, his pupils tiny, the blue of his eyes turning an emerald shade. 

She can feel her heart hammering, feels her pulse racing but it's nothing compared to the pure joy Benedict emits. 

His mind is wiped, there's not a single coherent thought left, only emotions so profound it makes her gasp and she sways at the onslaught of his endless love for her. 

The blinding glow around her subsides and she can breathe again, her thundering heartbeat slowly calming down.

He's still watching her wings, moving in the soft breeze, as his brows draw together, confusion radiating from him. 

"Benedict?" she asks concerned. 

He shakes his head, lets go of her hand and reaches out to run a gentle finger over the tips of her wings. 

"Either my eyes have gotten worse or... why are they white?" 

His confusion seeps into her and she turns her head, looking to where his fingers slide through white feathers. 

"Oh." 

Slipping into his mind she watches herself, standing in front of him, small and confused, her wings spread wide behind her back. 

But they don't have the usual emerald tinge: the tips on both sides are radiant white as if dipped into paint. 

And while she takes it in, it spreads, the whiteness slowly erasing the green as if washed away. 

"What's happening," he asks, worry clearly audible in his voice. 

She shakes her head, not knowing what to say. 

Silently they stand there, motionless watching, waiting. 

"It stopped," he whispers after a few minutes, exhaling a shaky breath. 

She catches the image of herself, wings divided in half: the upper half brilliantly white, the lower half still moss green although it's lighter than it used to be. 

"What..." he starts but she stops him, laying a finger on his lips. 

"I don't know," she replies firmly, making sure he can't read her right now. 

"Come here," she adds, taking his hands in hers again, pulling him closer. 

He rests his forehead against hers, still a bit shaken but her closeness quickly calms him again. 

They breathe together until both their hearts beat in sync and their pulse matches each other's. 

Hesitantly she moves her wings, suppressing the shock as the tips come into her view and wraps them gently around them both. The tips slide over Benedict's neck and he moans quietly, pressing himself closer to her body.

Despite herself she chuckles; he always loved it when they slid over his skin. 

He grumbles softly and leans in to kiss her. His lips are gentle, undemanding and they both get lost in it for a moment. 

When he breaks the kiss, his eyes glitter and his smile is wistful. 

"Thank you." 

She only smiles and quickly folds her wings away. 

Benedict lets go of her hands and stretches, wincing at the kinks in his back loosen before he laughs lowly. 

"Well then, let's get this party started," he says eagerly. 

He kisses the tip of her nose and turns, wanting to walk back inside. 

"Ahem," Emse clears her throat, "don't you think you should get dressed first?" 

He stops and looks down on himself, taking in the thin shirt and his pajama pants. 

"Hm, yes, that might be a good idea." 

She watches him walk inside, snickering to himself. As he vanishes upstairs to get dressed, she collapses on the bench, finally allowing the panic to break free even though she makes sure he doesn't feel it. 

"Goodness," she mutters to herself. 

It's the first time in all these years that she’s deliberately lied to him and she hates herself for it. 

White wings. Unfurling one wing she moves it forward, eyeing the bright colour warily. 

"Not today," she whispers, fury flaring up, only to subside just as quickly. 

She had heard about it, heard the tales about white wings and their reason. She always thought they were only rumours; it very rarely happens,  and she doesn't know anybody having this happened to. 

"Guess I'm the example now," she sighs, trying her best to ignore the sting in her chest. 

"Esme, Love, have you seen my shoes?" 

Benedict's voice drifts from inside the house, tearing her out of her stupor. 

"Turning 90 and promptly forgetting where your stuff is?" she calls back. 

His carefree laughter washes over her, erases the clenching pain in her heart. 

Standing she casts a glance at the sun still low at the horizon. 

"Well then," she murmurs, squaring her shoulders, "let's make it count." 

*

When the doorbell goes for the first time of the day, she's not even dressed. 

"Can you get that, please?" she calls from the bedroom, slipping into her dress and fishes for her shoes. 

Quickly she brushes her hair back before she hurries to the kitchen to have the drinks ready. 

She barely notices the quiet sound of music before two wiry arms close around her waist and a dry kiss is pressed against her cheek. 

Grinning she turns around and meets a pair of warm brown eyes. 

"I'm so glad you could make it," she says, beaming at the man in front of her. 

"Nothing could keep me from the old man's big day," James grins, taking a step back and gives her a once over. 

"You don’t look one day over 70, love. How do you do that?" he asks, raising a questioning eyebrow.  

"Sex," she replies dryly, making him bark with laughter. 

"Right," he coughs, shaking his head. 

She bites back a grin and puts a mug on the counter, turning her back to him. 

His arthritis has gotten worse over the past years and she knows he hates it to struggle to hold something as easy as a glass. Hence the mug. 

Thankfully serving tea at a party isn't unusual and she relishes the grateful rush coming off him. 

Sorting out the plates with finger food, she gives him the time he needs before she turns back to him, gesturing towards the sitting room where Benedict puts the last touches to the room. 

"Have a seat, James, the rest should be here in a minute." 

"Ta," he says, wandering over to slump into a seat, instantly starting a friendly banter with Benedict.  

She's glad James is here. He's one of the few still alive and he still has the ability to light up a room, fill it with his music and conjure smiles on everyone's face. 

The doorbell interrupts her. 

For the next hour she's busy opening the door, serving drinks and making sure everyone has a seat. 

Benedict's glowing with happiness, chatting away with his guests and more than once Esme catches an astounded ' _he can't be 90_ ' thought from one of their guests. 

Even to her he seems much younger, moving around smoothly, apparently having forgotten all the little ailments - at least for today. 

It makes her smile and every time his gaze finds hers, the wave of love coming from him, threatens to overwhelm her. 

Leaning in the doorway she takes in the scene before her. 

James sits next to Benedict, their heads almost touching as they giggle like schoolboys over something James had said. 

Steven has sent his regards through his sons who currently show their kids the collection of awards on the mantelpiece, telling the stories to each of them. 

Isabella, Mark's and Ian's daughter, is heavily pregnant and tries in vain to keep her firstborn from pulling out all the books on the bookshelf. 

Esme only smiles as she looks up, shrugging helplessly. 

"He just loves books, I have no idea where he's got that from," she says, sounding exhausted. 

"Don't worry," Esme replies and walks over. 

She squats down, slides a finger over the spines of the many books in the shelf until she finds what she's looking for. 

"Hey Christopher," she says, attracting the attention of the small boy, "have a look at this, hm? Your grandpa wrote this..." 

The book is snatched from her hands before she can even blink. 

She stands up again, watching the boy run over to the sofa and flop down, his nose almost touching the pages as he starts reading. 

"It's probably not appropriate for his age but..." 

Isabella laughs, shaking her head. 

"God no, he grew up in a Gatiss household, he's used to it." 

Esme chuckles. 

"Guess that never leaves." 

"No, not really." 

"I'm glad you're here," Esme says quietly. 

"Of course, they have been good friends and he was always there if any of us needed him. Even after they were gone..." 

She swallows, her smile faltering a bit. 

Wordlessly Esme hugs her and the two women just stay like that for a moment, each lost in memories. 

It's Isabella who pulls back, ruefully wiping her eyes. 

"Not the time to be wistful, innit? It's a happy occasion and I'm sure my dads would've been proud of him." 

"I'm sure about that." 

The doorbell rings again and Esme excuses herself to answer it. 

"Sorry we're late, the traffic was horrible," Grace says breathlessly, hugging Esme in greeting. 

"No problem at all. Come on in. Hello Joe, been a while." 

"Yeah well, the kids are going nuts and the wife is working like a maniac. She sends best wishes by the way." 

"Thank you." 

Opening the door wide she motions them inside, ruffling the twins hair as they trudge after their father and shakes hands earnestly with Grace's eldest, almost as tall as his mother by now. 

"They're in the sitting room," she calls after them before she heads for the kitchen to get more drinks. 

It's all very casual today. She didn't order a proper lunch, just nibbles because with all the kids around, she knew sitting down orderly on their small table would've been impossible. 

And Benedict likes it better like this anyway, he has never been one for formality, especially not on his birthday. 

Wandering back and forth between the kitchen and the sitting room, she makes sure everyone has a drink and reminds them all that there's food on the counter. 

Eventually she falls down on the sofa, exhaling softly. 

Their cottage hasn't been this busy in ages and she enjoys it immensely. The bustling around her, the murmur of several conversations, the patter of small feet. 

She has pulled up her guard this morning, made sure it was able to keep the onrush of thoughts out and so far it works. Of course she does get a few scattered emotions but nothing she can't handle. 

Everyone in this room is happy, the love for Benedict almost palpable in the warm air streaming in through the open windows. 

Benedict himself is almost floating, smiling nonstop at everyone, his eyes shining brightly with bliss. 

The loud tinkle of metal against glass silences the room. 

James slowly stands up, resting a hand on Benedict's shoulder. 

"I'm not one for grand speeches but since it's my best friend's birthday I figured it's expected." 

Laughter floats around and he winks cheekily. 

"Benedict, I’ve known you almost all my life. I never thought you, and me for that matter, would make it this far. Ninety bloody years. Who the hell lives that long?!" 

More laughter and a few cheers. 

"But we're still here, a bit bruised, frayed around the edges but still breathing..." 

He falls silent, his eyes become unfocused for a second before he catches himself again. 

"Anyway, I thought in honour of your special day, instead of boring everyone with a rubbish speech, I'd rather play for you." 

Squeezing Benedict's shoulder he shuffles over to the piano in the corner of the sitting room. 

Opening it, he sighs dramatically. 

"You really should keep this in better shape, mate, the poor thing hasn't been played in years." 

Benedict snickers. 

"Shut up, I had her tuned just two days ago. Only for you." 

James glares at him, raising an eyebrow. 

"Been hoping for a birthday serenade then?" 

"Of course, it's what you do best." 

They exchange a long look before they both burst out in laughter. 

"You know me too well, man," James grunts as he sits down and turns to the keys. 

From her place on the sofa, Esme is the only one who sees the flicker of discomfort dart over his face as he clenches his hands.

Without hesitance she mentally reaches out , taking away the pain surging through his body. She hasn't done this before but it comes naturally to her now, replacing the permanent ache in his joints with warmth, making sure he can play like he wants today - carefree and painless. 

He sighs softly as his entire body relaxes into this new feeling. 

Esme hasn't been careful, he had noticed that she touched his mind but she doesn't care and James doesn't wonder; it just happened and it feels perfectly natural. 

He looks up and finds her eyes, a heavy wave of gratefulness washing over her. 

"Ta," he mouths before he looks away again, his eyes glazing over as he concentrates. 

His hands lower onto the keys, and for a moment the world stands still. 

Nobody moves, Esme holds her breath and absently notices all the others in the room do the same. 

Then James strikes one note. Just one. He lets it ring through the room, fill the space with its clarity until it's almost faded. 

Only then he starts playing, his fingers easily dancing over the keys. Slowly at first, the notes barely to audible. Gradually his playing becomes louder until the air is reverberating with music. 

Esme sees how James loses himself in it, drifts deeper and deeper into his playing, forgets the people around him. It's a beautiful sight and she doesn't even feel the tears running down her face. 

The piece is perfect. James has written it over the past year, specially for Benedict's birthday. 

It paints a picture in the space around him, so very vivid she can almost touch it. 

About how they first met. 

The time at school together, the years when they lost sight of each other and when they met again. 

Their friendship, growing, becoming stronger over time. 

The bond they share and what Benedict means to him. 

Then, the time Esme came into Benedict's life, changed him, changed James's own perception of her and of their relationship. 

The years after that. Highs and lows, arguments and reconciliations. 

How Benedict was always there when James needed him. 

How James overcame the loss of his wife with his help. 

How Benedict could always count on James, through the good times and the bad.

How loved Benedict is. By James, by Esme, by everyone else who's known him.  

It ends on a soft note, quiet yet powerful, leaving a ringing void as he takes his hands off the keys.

He sits still, his shoulders rising gently as he breathes. 

It takes Esme a long moment to return from this imaginative journey, coming back to herself. 

She casts a look around, sees astonishment on every single face, young and old. Here and there glitters a tear and as her gaze finds Benedict, she whimpers tonelessly. 

The expression on his face is something she has never seen before. 

Tears are streaming down his cheeks but he doesn't even notice. His eyes are glued to James's back, his lips twitching, torn between a smile and something achingly sad. The smile eventually wins, curling upwards and his entire face lightens up. 

Without a word he stands, struggling in doing so and very carefully walks the few steps towards the man at the piano. He's swaying but he waves a dismissive hand at Louis who wants to steady him. As he reaches James, he hesitates a second before he lays a hand on his shoulder. 

He stands like this for another moment, neither man moving. Then James lifts a hand and covers Benedict's with it. 

Esme's sure she can hear the conversation they have, wordlessly and yet loud and clear, exchanged only with their eyes and hearts. 

'I don't have words.'

'Not needed, man.'

'That was utterly brilliant.' 

'Thank you.'

'How did you do that? I mean, how is it possible to write and play something so...shatteringly beautiful?' 

'I don't really know...' 

'You know I love you, right?' 

'I know. I love you too.' 

'God, James...' 

"Happy birthday, Ben," James says in a croaky voice. 

It breaks the spell: everyone starts cheering and applauding, the cottage suddenly fills with loud noises and a flurry of motions. Most have jumped to their feet, surrounding James at the piano, half spoken words flying through the air. 

Esme ignores it, has only eyes for the two men, still frozen in their own little bubble. 

James blinks and it seems to break the connection they have. Slowly he stands, steadying himself on the piano, Benedict's hand slips from his shoulder to his waist. 

Before James can fully turn, Benedict has pulled him into a hug, mindful of the other man's fragile bones. His face is pressed into his neck, his hands splayed over James's back, and Esme is almost certain she can hear a quiet sob. 

James returns the hug, murmuring inaudible words before he pulls back, a faint blush colouring his face. 

"Glad you liked it," he mutters shyly and Benedict throws his head back, laughing heartily. 

"Liked it?" he asks breathlessly, not able to say anything else. 

But it's not needed, everyone in the room can see how touched he is, can read it on his face, see it in his smile. 

"Liked it," Benedict mumbles under his breath, rolling his eyes at his friend before he lets him go. 

"Liked. It." 

Shaking his head he takes a step back, the adoration for James very visible in his loving gaze. 

"That was the best birthday present you could've made me," he says quietly, the smile on his face not once faltering. 

James opens his mouth, hesitates and closes it again, declining his head gently. 

"My pleasure, Ben," is all he can come up with. 

"A toast," someone booms; Esme doesn't know who it was but everyone raises their glasses. 

"A very happy birthday to you, Benedict." 

Glass clinks and the spell laying over the room dissolves, laughter and chatter fills the air again. 

James and Benedict are still exchanging looks but eventually James is pulled away and Benedict stumbles back to his seat, falling heavily on it. 

His lids flutter closed before they snap open again, roaming around until they find Esme's. 

"Did you know?" he asks, his mental voice breaking at the end. 

She shakes her head. 

"No, I didn't." 

"How... I mean, his hands have gotten worse. He hasn't played this... perfectly in years." 

She only smiles, not answering but he narrows his eyes, reading the answer on her face. 

"What if..." he frowns, concern lacing his question. 

"It doesn't matter," she replies and stands, walking over to him. 

"It's my present to you," she whispers as she reaches him, kissing the top of his head, "leave it be." 

He wants to ask, wants to know but he feels that she won't answer him and so he lets it slide. 

Instead he takes her hands which rest on his shoulders and pulls them down, pressing them over his heart. 

"Thank you. For everything." 

She only hums, resting her cheek on top of his head. Strands of his hair tickle her skin, his scent surrounds her and she ignores the slowly darkening room as the sun starts to sink. 

*

The party ends around 8. Kids have to be put to bed, the older ones need their rest as well and as much as Benedict protests, he's exhausted. It has been a long day for him. 

Waving after their leaving friends Esme and he stand in the doorway until the last tail lights vanish in the dying daylight. 

"What a wonderful day," he says, still radiating a soft happiness. 

"It was indeed. Want some tea before bed?" she asks lightly even though her heart beats a bit too quickly. 

"Yes, why not. On the porch, it's still warm." 

"Go ahead, I’ll get the tea." 

She watches him shuffle towards the backdoor, kicking off his shoes and shedding his jacket on the way. His step is slow, a bit unsteady and it chases a sharp pang through her veins. 

Ignoring it, she heads for the kitchen to put the kettle on. 

She joins him on their bench a few minutes later, handing him a steaming mug. 

"Ah," he sighs contently, stretching his long legs, wiggling his long toes in the last beams of the sun, "nothing better than to end a perfect day with a perfect cup of tea."

"I'm glad you had a lovely day," she says, sipping her tea. 

"Utterly splendid day." 

They drink in silence, watching the sun sink behind the trees, painting them in the most glorious shades of pink and orange, purple tinged clouds sailing lazily over the darkening sky. 

Benedict yawns and stretches and then slowly slides sideways, curling up on his side, laying his head in her lap. 

"Don't want to go to bed," he explains around another yawn, "I don't want this day to end." 

"Me neither," she whispers, sliding a hand in his messy curls. They are silky and warm beneath her fingers and she starts combing through them, relishing the feeling of the strands. 

Benedict snuggles closer to her and soon low rumbling sounds fill the air, making them both smile. 

Not looking down, she lets her fingertips travel over his face, memorising every single line. He keeps purring gently as she outlines his eyebrows, slides her fingertips over his closed lids, down his straight nose to eventually run them over his full lips, making him moan quietly. 

Her lids have closed on their own accord but behind them she sees his face, sharp and outstanding against the dark, a blazing blue fire in his eyes, his lips curled into a cheeky smile. 

His content purring has faded and his deep breathing becomes slower. 

Still not opening her eyes, she slips her hand under his shirt, resting it over his heart. She gasps as it skips a beat but he doesn't even notice. 

"I love you. I know I've never said it often enough..." he murmurs hazily. 

His voice sounds sleepy, his words barely audible.  She looks down at him, unshed tears clouding her vision.

"It was never needed. You know that." 

His heavy lids flutter, desperately trying to stay open just a little bit longer.

"I'm tired." 

She forces the words past the lump in her throat, keeping her tone quiet even though it seems impossible.

"Then sleep, my Love." 

A heavy sigh and eventually he gives in, sparkling blue eyes slowly sliding closed, his body relaxing into her touch. 

"Good night, my Beloved." 

It's only a murmur but it carries all the love he possess, all the emotions of a lifetime. 

"Good night, Benedict." 

A tender smile dances over his full lips as he gives in to the ever dragging pull. 

Slowly, almost hesitantly, life trickles out of him like sand in an hourglass, leaving his body, vanishing into the ether. 

A tear escapes her swimming eyes as she bends down to kiss him one last time. 

"Farewell, my beautiful soul. Till we meet again." 

Her words are hushed, fading away in the low lights of dusk. 

She can feel the last bits of colour drain from her wings, can almost see how the green fades into a blinding white. 

And she knows what it means, has known all day. 

Death of her soulmate. And death of her own soul. 

Parts of her will be lost forever, gone with Benedict's spirit.  

She sits there for a while, her hand still caressing his hair, the other over his silent heart. 

Night fully falls, envelops house and garden with its velvet darkness, the moon hesitantly blinks between the trees, casting silvery beams through the branches. 

The soft glow of a firefly catches her attention. 

She watches its tiny light meander from one side of the garden to the other and somewhere in the back of her head she thinks: 

'It looks like it's searching something' 

The insect flutters closer, its light becoming brighter as it glides through the air towards her.

Suddenly it stops midair, and Esme realises that the soft glow is vibrating, pulsing in sync with her heart. 

Curiously she watches as it comes closer, dancing only a few inches away from her face. 

And then there's the faint sound of Benedict's sweet laughter and a rush of heat fills her numb body. 

'Do you really think I’d leave you? After everything?' 

His voice is hoarse, the words chasing a shudder down her spine and a hesitant smile blooms on her lips. 

'My darling heart, my beloved angel. Nothing can keep me from you,' it whispers in her ears. 

The small dot of light in front of her grows, expands, becomes too bright to look at. 

Squeezing her eyes closed she feels as it starts to surround her, slides over her arms and legs and envelops her completely. 

It seeps into her skin, winds around her bones, sinks into her heart and suddenly laughter bubbles up. 

Hers is clear in the cool night air, his is low, rumbling through her mind like thunder. 

'Till the end of time, remember' his voice whispers and she can feel his large hands over her broken heart, feels how his elegant fingers mend it again. 

Tears roll down her face as she feels his soul melt into hers, finally becoming one just like she had always wanted and thought it'd never happen.

'Even an angel can err,' he murmurs and she leans into the airy touch on her cheek. 

"I love you," she says into the empty garden and she smiles as a deep peace fills every cell in her body. 

She doesn't get an answer but she doesn't need one.

She's not alone. 

***

When the sun wakes her the next morning - she's still sitting on the bench, Benedict lifeless body next to her - and she carefully stands, she instinctively feels that something else has changed. 

Curiously she unfurls her wings; her joyous giggle echoes loudly in the cool air. 

Her wings have changed colour again. 

They shimmer blue and green and gold in the early lights, tiny flashes of copper dancing over the smooth surface, mixed with silver and bronze; a dazzling kaleidoscope of colour. 

Astonished she slides a finger over them, and for the blink of an eye she sees the shadow of another hand, bigger than hers, gently covering hers. 

'Stop delaying, Love.' 

"I'm not delaying," she murmurs, trying to suppress her grin.

The soft snort as an answer is enough to make her laugh again. 

"Okay, maybe a bit." 

Folding her wings away, she squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath. 

"Well then," she murmurs, "let's do this." 

She steps towards the bench, brushing a white strand of hair out of his face before she walks inside to make the necessary phone-calls, softly smiling to herself. 

Benedict's low chuckles accompany her. 

 

 


End file.
